


Inspiration Lost

by The_artist_friend (vesseltyler)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Suicide, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesseltyler/pseuds/The_artist_friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is a graphic designer who has lost his inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration Lost

**Author's Note:**

> once more I'm very sorry.  
> again this is for Tiny. like always.

Jean looked out the train window. His sketchbook poked out of his bag, untouched for about a month. He reached his hands up—cracked and worn—and ruffled his two-toned hair, sighing heavily.

It had been almost a month since Marco had died, and Jean had two emotional reactions at different times. Like now, for example, when he was busy and not at home, he was mostly numb and empty. But the second he got home, after work, he would feel bitterly hollow, sucked empty and dry and missing something.

The train stopped and he got to his feet, knees cracking. Jean stepped from the train, looking at the platform and turned left, heading for the office. He walked along the street, looking up and around like he used to. All this graffiti, all this artistic expression wandering around him in the most unreachable and unexpected places. It used to make him smile, laugh even, but now he just cast his eyes downward.

He stepped into the building, cold granite floors sucking any heat away. The receptionist, Petra, smiled gently at him from behind her desk. She had been close to Marco, too, but not like Jean. The elevator chimed and he stepped inside, avoiding the gazes of the people inside with him.

He got off on the twelfth floor and rounded the corner, heading straight for his office. Before he had lost half of himself, he used to detour through the kitchen and greet everyone, grabbing a vanilla latte from the fancy espresso machine every morning. He dropped his bag on the floor, and the sketchbook fell out, scattering his old ideas and inspirations everywhere. Around his computer were pictures of the smiling, freckled individual who had gotten through his asshole demeanor and turned him softer and kinder.

"Marco..." Jean said, breath hitching, brushing the pad of his finger against an image.

He had been a graphic artist, before. But now he didn't have any inspiration, or any desire to create. He powered up his tablet and picked up the pen, listlessly drawing circles. He needed to complete a new logo for the company, The Survey Corps, by tomorrow morning. He thought of the last day he'd seen Marco, the day they'd talked about getting tattoos together.

"No," Jean had said, kissing Marco's fingers. "Don't cover your freckles. They're perfect."

Marco had just laughed and held his hands. Then, a drunk driver had taken Marco away from him and left Jean all alone in his artistic and strange world.

Jean put his head down and closed his eyes. A feather-light touch brushed against his shoulder and the warm, soft smell that was distinctly Marco caused Jean to snap his head up. Like another car, shattering and splintering and creaking, an idea hit him. The tattoos they were going to get. That's what he would draw.

One wing, the one behind, was two-toned, silver and titanium. It was shaded just so, following every ridge and valley of the slightly spotted, almost paint-splattered wing. He sketched it out, layering detail and color and shading, for hours until it was perfect.

When he looked up again, it was dark. Everyone had left and he felt entirely drained of everything. The train station was a blur, he hardly remembered if he had gotten off at the right stop, but he was finally home. He pulled out his sketchbook, sitting in the kitchen and fondly remembering all the breakfasts that had happened here.

He took gold India ink, the very same that he had used to draw Marco's freckles time and time again, and began to sketch. When he looked up from his finished work, gold freckles and a beautiful smile beamed up at him, and he smiled too.

He took up the brush and wrote along the top and bottom of the page before leaving to find something.

He walked to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and grabbed something to return to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass of water and sat down, reaching for the new drawing. He shook a handful of blue smiley faces out of a bottle, and swallowed them with a wavering grin of his own.

He reached his hand out to stroke the ink once more.

"Goodbye," the ink on the top of the page read in a messy scrawl.

"Hello," read the bottom, near where Marco was beaming. Everything inside hurt. He felt like he had gulped down acid, but he was still smiling. Jean closed his eyes and began to whisper.

"Hello, Marco," he gasped. "Hello."


End file.
